


We can be together

by orphan_account



Series: Recovering Geezers [2]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Fiddauthor week 2k15, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-18 01:26:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4687220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for Fiddauthor week 2k15</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sweet

Fiddleford had always been a decent cook. Being a single father had taught him the ins and outs of a stove. Stanford on the other hand could make things no one would ever want to eat. Fiddleford still blanched at the cycloctopus sushi Stanford tried to feed him. Still, one had to admire the man’s daring.

“I’d ask you to leave the kitchen but it’s your house.” Fiddleford said after listening to a thirty minute explanation of why it would be a good idea to add soy sauce and mustard to the meal they were making.

“Our house.” Stanford reminded, placing a gentle kiss on his lover’s cheek. Fiddleford blushed, his eyes darting around but they were alone in the room. He pushed Stanford back to his station washing strawberries and Stanford complied but not without stealing another quick kiss.

“Well since it’s o-our house. I’m going to have to ask you to leave the kitchen after that awful mental image.”

“But then,” Stanford’s voice crept low, right into Fiddleford’s ear canal, “who’s going to help butter your bread?”

Fiddleford elbowed Stanford before he could go for the grab and resumed stirring, ignoring Stanford who started laughing, his wet hands flicking droplets everywhere.

“You are incorrigible.” Fiddleford said, a smile on his lips “We have a guest you know.”

“But they’re not in the room are they?” Stanford said, his hands creeping towards Fiddleford’s hips.

“Don’t you dare.” Fiddleford warned, still not looking away from the mixing bowl.

“Just a little taste.” Stanford said and then there was a strawberry dipping into the cake mix, and then a six fingered hand was pressing a chocolate covered strawberry on his closed lips.

Fiddleford glared at Stanford from over his glasses. He only grinned wider in response.

“C’mon, just a little taste.” Push. Push. The chocolate was smearing against his lips. “Please.” Stanford said, voice dipped low in the way he knew Fiddleford liked.

A tongue poked out to lick at the chocolate. He allowed Stanford to glide the strawberry in further as he closed his eyes in bliss. It tasted sweet, the chocolate with the sweet strawberry underneath, the texture unique to his tongue. It was still cold from the freezer too, the sensation bringing shivers down his spine.

He took a bite and moaned as sour and sweet juices flooded his taste bud, opening his eyes when he the rest of the strawberry fall away. There Stanford stood, eyes half-lidded and breath coming heavy, his cheeks painted a vibrant red.

“There’s chocolate on your lips.” Was all Stanford said, his voice sounding strangled.

“Is there?” Fiddleford asked, his tongue already sweeping his lower lip. Two strong hands gripped his waist and he yelped as Stanford’s mouth started attacking his own. They were close. Like, pushed up against each other close, Stanford’s hand pulling at his hips. Fiddleford found he didn’t mind sharing sweetness through mouths and tongues but he did mind the wandering hands and the lopsided glasses that clacked together at every tilt of the head.

“Stanford Tate could walk in any minute-” Fiddleford said, pushing the insistent brunette away, “not to mention-” Fiddleford was interrupted by another kiss, chaste this time. He glared at his boyfriend.

“Last one, I promise.” Stanford said, his crooked smile much too adoring to be mad at.

Fiddleford grumbled as he went back to the mixing bowl,  _“probably_ should _kickyououtofthekitchen. Goodfernothingcinnamonroll. Toocuteforthisworld. Toopure._ Gosh darn it.”

“I still say we should add mustard and soy sauce to it.”

“That’s it. Out.”

“Bu-”

“Go join our guest in the living room.” Fiddleford said as he pushed Stanford out of the kitchen, huffing, hands on his hips, and looking cute in his frilly pink apron. Of course, Stanford didn’t say that out loud. He was glad that the kitchen didn’t have a proper door as he watched Fiddleford stalk back to the mixing bowl and place it in the oven. His eyes focused on a certain man’s behind.

If living with Fiddleford would be this sweet every day, he should’ve asked him to move in sooner. 


	2. Hands of Fate

He wouldn’t stop staring at his hands. Stanford hated how they trembled, they were firm hands, sturdy hands. Stanford had no use for them if they shook.

“Would you stop it?” He snapped. Fiddleford flinched, his hands still shaking. He kept muttering words and phrases, all of it just jumbled letters with no discernible meaning.

“That’s what you get for erasing your brain cells. If you just-”

“These hands have sinned.”

“What? What are you spouting about now?”

“These hands have sinned.” Fiddleford said, staring at his hands. There were nothing strange about them, no scars and no burns, just hands. He stared at them as if they were monsters. Stanford knew the feeling like he knew the back of his own hands, weird and gross and unnatural. It made him hesitate but then indignation made it’s home in his chest along with a hot veined thrum.

Fiddleford had normal hands. Fiddleford wasn’t born, wasn’t ridiculed, never had to hide his six-fingered hands.  Fiddleford had hands that could create the most beautiful things and he was wasting his time hiding them behind long-sleeved robes and wiping the minds of townsfolk. Of himself.

“Your hands are fine Fiddleford.” He said, squeezing them in his own so they’d stop shaking. They did but Fiddleford did not. Stanford tried to capture Fiddleford’s eyes with his own but it was hard with that stupid hood and Fiddleford’s cracked glasses.

“We’ve created evil!” Fiddleford yelled, thrusting his face into Stanford’s. His hood fell to reveal graying hair uneven hair, something even a sturdy comb couldn’t fix. The hands in Stanford’s grasp seemed intent on escaping but Stanford’s hands became a vice grip, almost like the man was trying to cut circulation. “You have to destroy the portal Stanford.”

“I won’t.” Stanford said. “This is my life’s work and yours too.”

“It will destroy you.”

“Oh yeah, and where’s the scientific proof? Where’s the earthquakes and rumbling lightning? Where’s the hellfire and brimstone?”

Fiddleford’s voice was so quiet, his eyes pointed downward at their joined hands. “On the other side.”

“What did you see?” Stanford asked, his fingers slipping through the cracks between Fiddleford’s own.

“Our doom.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Something tells me you won’t be jolly with any answer I give.” Fiddleford sighed, finally pulling away from Stanford’s open palms. Stanford looked at his empty hands, the warmth fading like a scorned lover, never to be seen again except for when nostalgia comes knocking on the door, whispering memories into your mind’s eye.

He closed his hands into fists and looked up only for a kiss to grace his lips. Soft. Chaste. A hint of tears.

“I’m so sorry Stanford.” Warm glass pressed against his forehead, like a lightbulb that was cooling down. And it was a light bulb. A light bulb attached to the most hated and admired (barring the Portal) creation of Fiddleford’s. Stanford watched Fiddleford with haunted eyes, but all he could see was shadows above a line-worn mouth; Fiddleford’s hood drawn low over his head.

He was fumbling with the dial. Stanford knew he could take Fiddleford down in the time it’d take him to finish but something pulled him back. The voices in his head pulled him back. Ever since the portal happened he’s been going down a slippery slope and he knew it. He knew it like he knew that the grass is green, the sky is blue and in Gravity Falls not even that mattered.

He knew he needed someone he could trust. And Fiddleford Hadron Mcgucket could be that person.

He closed his eyes as a bright blue glow highlighted his face in ashen colors. His eyes were still closed when a second bright light glowed through the clearing and something fell onto the forest floor.

When he opened his eyes, he had no idea where he was but he knew Fiddleford when he saw him, some ridiculous red cloak on his body and a confused look to his face. He looked terrible, his hair a nasty gray and his glasses cracked. He also looked confused which wasn’t good.

“Stanford? You look terribibl-terrible.” Surprised, Stanford looked at himself. He felt like he was dirty and his eyes were a little heavy but it felt like nothing compared to Fiddleford.

“Come on let’s go home.” Stanford said, eyeing the dark forest. “We can get cleaned up there.” He took Fiddleford’s hand, interlacing it with his own. He marched to where he thought home was, feeling a tired ache in his step but not knowing why.

“St-stanford, do you know what happened? I- I don’t seem to recall a thing.”

“No, but I’m sure something in my journals will help us figure things out.”

Unnoticed from the two of them, watching eyes turned away from the scene to disappear in a heartbeat.

 


	3. Game

Stanford threw his head back, laughing as Fiddleford covered his head in his hands.

“Dangnabbit Stanford you did that on purpose.”

“And where’s the proof of that?”

“I rolled a 5 not a 1! I should’ve survived that by at least one hit point.”

“Nope.” Stanford said, flicking over Fiddleford’s game piece. He leaned back with a satisfied smirk, his back hitting the frame of his bed.

“That can’t be right.” Fiddleford said, examining the board laid in the middle of their dorm room. They sat on the floor surrounded by graph paper, some already written on and others waiting for the scratch of pencil to mark them. It was night time. The stars out and moon shining, the only light in the room came from the lamp placed beside them, Fiddleford casting large shadows as he shifted above the board for a closer look.

Stanford smiled while he sipped his pitt cola. It was a Saturday night and in their boredom they decided to break out Dungeons, Dungeons and more Dungeons. It wasn’t one of their most riveting games, still burned out from all the studying they had to this week, Stanford more so since he was taking more classes in the hopes of getting out of this place in the next year or two.

.

As he sat the can down, Stanford felt something boiling in his stomach. He’d been avoiding it all semester, the flutter in his stomach every time Fiddleford looked his way, the sweaty palms he had as he passed books to his roommate as their fingers brushed, his admiration for the man who could play banjo and solve the hardest of math problems.

But now, now he felt like he could confess. Now was the time. He opened his mouth, a heaviness working its way up his intestines, up his throat and-

He burped.

He burped and it was loud and disgusting and he felt heat creep up on his cheeks as he clamped his hands over his mouth in shock. He stared at Fiddleford who just looked up at him with a raised eyebrow.

“Had too much cola there Stanford?”

“Excuse me.”

Fiddleford leaned back, taking a sniff with his large nose, “Whoooo wee Stanford. what did you eat for dinner? That smell is disgusting.”

Stanford shrunk into himself, covering his face with his hands. This could not be happening.

Fiddleford gave a small chuckle, “It’s fine Stanford. I’ve smelt worse, heck, I’m pretty sure I’ve dealt worse once or twice. At least it wasn’t a fart.”

“No.” Stanford said muffled by his hands, “No this isn’t how it was supposed to go.” He took the hands away from the side of his face. “I was supposed to be suave and cool, or coherent at the very least and then I burped. Who burps when they’re trying to confess? An idiot that’s who.”

“Confess?” Fiddleford asked, his eyebrows lifting towards his hairline.

“W-well, yeah but now it’s ruined, oh god I should’ve consulted the list. Why didn’t I consult the list? The list is never wrong-

Before Stanford could babble anymore nonsense Fiddleford leaned over, one of his knees wrinkling a graph paper, and kissed Stanford on the mouth. It was short but sweet, and when Stanford opened his eyes, Fiddleford was already seated on the opposite end of the board, rolling the die.

It landed a perfect 38. “Now would you look at that.” Fiddleford said, flicking Probabilator the annoying’s game piece over, “I just saved Princess Unattainabelle. I think I should get a hero’s reward for that.”

Gazing into his eyes, Fiddleford slid the game board away and scooted closer to Stanford. He pecked Stanford once, twice, three times in the lips before Stanford got the message and kissed back with all the love he could muster. Which was a lot.


	4. Drive

He paces. He always paces as Fiddleford gets his work done and Stanford has nothing else to do. Fiddleford can hear him, muttering equations and probabilities. It would be admirable, the brains behind such a thick head, the cogs that fueled a human being as smart as Stanford Pines.

It would be admirable if it weren’t the third day straight of nonstop work. Now it was just plain annoying.

“Think of what this could do, the places we could find, the new possibilities.” Stanford said with a bright grin. The man could go three days straight without a wink of rest but Fiddleford hadn’t eaten anything in hours (not that Stanford has either) and he needed a break.

He set his welding torch aside and flipped his mask up, “I need a break.”

“We’re almost there.” Stanford said, his breath catching against the syllables. “Almost.”

Fiddleford hummed. It was Stanford’s crowning achievement- well, if it worked. Fiddleford was sometimes skeptical of the math, the impossibility of a gateway between worlds, but then Stanford would have this look in his eyes, this surety in his step, and it would all wash away. But now it was in the middle of the night and the rose-colored glasses gave way to bleary eyes and a grumbling stomach.

“If we continue on this schedule we could have it on and test it out by next Thursday.”

‘This schedule’ meaning nonstop working, day in and out. Fiddleford closed his bruised eyes, letting his fingers burn around the hot paper cup, letting the smell of coffee wake him through scent alone. There was a reason they had a coffee machine down here but even this was ridiculous.

“You know, we could take it slow.” Fiddleford said, not bothering to open his eyes.

“But we’re so close.”

“When’s the last time you showered?”

There was a silence for a while. Fiddleford forced himself to take a sip of coffee or else let it fall out of his weakening grasp. When he looked up through bleary eyes, Stanford was smelling his armpits.

“When was the last time we went on a date?” Fiddleford asked, his sigh displacing the steam so it floated outward.

“I, uh,” It was dark out in the labs but still, only silhouettes and color blurs instead of solid lines but it seemed as if Stanford’s cheeks glowed with the force of his blush. “This is kinda like a date isn’t it? I mean we’re together and-”

“Stanford Pines this is by no means a real date.”

“After next thursday I promise, I’ll-”

“Stanford Pines do not make me throw this hot cup of joe at you.”

Stanford’s shoulders slumped, his eyes darting between the unfinished portal and his brother standing against the desk. Fiddleford raised his eyebrow.

“A-alright. We’ll go on a date tomorrow a-and I’ll shower.”

Fiddleford snorted into his cup, “Don’t sound so disappointed darlin’ or else I’ll get to thinkin’ you like that portal more than me.”

There was an uneasy silence where Fiddleford glared at Stanford only for him to shrug and smile, poking his fingers together. Fiddleford rolled his eyes and placed his cup on the table, then began to walk toward the elevator, Stanford following at a slower pace.

“I swear next time I’m gonna have to hogtie you outta here. Don’t doubt me, I love your drive Stanford, but sometimes it’s almost like you’re obsessed.”

Fiddleford chuckled and waited for the comeback, the smart alec defense, but instead he heard something fall behind him. Like a harsh thud. Or a falling body.

He spun around, finding Stanford lying flat on the floor. He rushed to the other’s side, checking his pulse. Alive. He sat back and let his racing heart slow down. Stanford had been up for three days straight with little to no sustainable food or rest. He must’ve just shut down. Nothing to worry about, Fiddleford kept telling himself, a quick night’s rest and he’d be good as new.

Fiddleford got on his knees to stand but a noise caught his attention; a high electrical sound, like something firing up, not quite like sparks but thrumming or some kind of keening. He squinted at the dark lab, his bruised eyes casting shadows across his retina. His eyes widened as he found the source of the noise, half hidden in shadows-

“It can’t be.” He breathed before he, too, was knocked unconscious, his limp body landing over Stanford’s.


	5. On My Mind

“So this is it huh?” Stanford asked, graduation cap on his head and a doctorate in his hand.

“This is it.” Fiddleford affirmed, tears welling in his eyes. He quickly brushed them away but they both heard the sniff.

“Do you-” Stanford stilled his tapping fingers, “Do you have anything planned after this?”

“California.” Fiddleford said, “It’s where a lot of businesses are cropping up and I have this new idea; personalized computers. I’m tellin’ you it’s the new tomorrow. You?”

“Oregon.” Stanford said, containing his urge to scoff at the thought of personal computers. A waste of time if you asked him, but then again that might just be his dashed hopes talking. “It has a higher cluster of paranormal activities than anywhere else.”

They stood there, the questions they hoped to ask burning in their throats, clutching their respective degrees. Then Stanford put a hand out in the space between them.

“It was nice knowing you Fiddleford Hadron Mcgucket.” Fiddleford stared at the hand in wonder before shaking the hand with a firm grip.

“Likewise Stanford Filbrick Pines.” Even as he pulled back, he could still feel the warmth of the shake, the feel of an extra finger curled around his palm. “Don’t be a stranger now, ya hear?”

“I hear.” Stanford said with a little smile, indulgent.

Fiddleford chuckled, his eyes becoming soft and still wet from his earlier tears, creating an almost sparkling effect. Like the New Jersey shore as the sun hit it just right, setting the waves aglow. Mixed feelings came as he stared at those eyes. There’s no New Jersey shore in Roadkill County, Oregon.

So consumed was he by his friend’s eyes that he almost didn’t hear the soft, “I’ll miss you.” over the sound of crashing waves.

“I’ll miss you too.” Stanford replied, almost on autopilot. Fiddleford blinked and his soulful eyes looked down. He wiped at his eyes again.

“Hey, we’ll be in contact. Chin up.”

“You’re right.” Fiddleford said, “So…I guess…I guess this is goodbye?”

“No.” It couldn’t be the end. Not so soon. “It’s see you later.”

——————————

Despite all the weird and all the amazing things Gravity Falls had to offer Stanford could never quite get Fiddleford Hadron Mcgucket out of his mind. They still talked on a regular basis but even that didn’t seem to quench Stanford’s feelings.

It was the little things. Wondering what Fiddleford was up to when brushing his teeth, looking at a monster and imagining Fiddleford’s reaction to it, making lists of everything that went wrong with their departure into different sciences, lying awake at night staring at the ceiling of his room and thinking of all the things that made up Fiddleford…

It wasn’t annoying but it wasn’t exactly productive either. The only real solution was either to ignore it or find a way to get Fiddleford up here. He didn’t really have an excuse for the latter so for a long time he just let it be. Until, of course, the portal’s conception.

He spent one hour, forty-seven minutes and thirty two seconds in front of the phone, internally arguing the pros and the cons of whether he should disturb his friend and the imaginary bullet points to strengthen his argument against any and all could-be presented downsides. In the end though, Fiddleford agreed in a minute flat. Stanford was so full of giddy joy that he didn’t think of what the man was leaving behind. But did it matter? An interdimensional portal vs personal computers? What was the competition in that?

Thirty years later, Stanford Pines wished he never met Fiddleford Mcgucket.

If only to spare the smartest man he knew the oil slick road of going out of one’s mind into the fiery pit of insanity. 


	6. Starlight

The hilltop was the perfect place to watch the stars, short grass, high elevation, and just far away enough from the town that the stars were in perfect view. They walked together to the top when everyone else was asleep, the journey so quiet it was almost as if all of nature was sleeping as well. If a cricket chirped, they did not hear it.

One man sat while the other stood, his hands behind his back not looking at the stars but the town just beyond their lonely hilltop. It’s lights still visible despite the evening hour. His imposing stature only heightened by his choice of clothing: black trench coat, dark grey turtleneck, his glasses cracked and a resting face sturdier than titanium.

His partner sat, chin resting on tucked knees. He, too, didn’t seem very preoccupied with the stars, instead his gaze following the swaying grass. There were tears in his eyes that slid down watery cheeks unchecked. Every now and again he would sniff but if his companion heard the sound, he didn’t say a thing. Despite it being summer, regardless of the night, the man wore a blood red cloak, the red hood resting on his head and the hem brushing against the grass..

They sat there for a while in the quiet hill, the wind sweeping their graying hair only for it to settle again. The man in the trenchcoat tore his eyes away from the town and sat down, his trenchcoat shifting to reveal a strangely shaped gun on his belt before he was sitting down, six fingered hands palming the earth. His friend didn’t comment.

Instead they both shifted into watching the skies. Bright lights twinkled at them, blues and purples and pinks cataloguing the galaxy they never saw in a town. The waning moon seemed to call out to them, crying, because for a long time they stared at it in sorrow.

“How was I?” The one on the right said, seeming too tired to support himself as the stars moved above him. He laid down, letting the sweet scent of nature drift through his nose in soft exhales and inhales.

“You were a good man until the end.”

“That’s a lie and you know it. Look at you, you look like you haven’t had a good day in months.”

He hugged his knees tighter and then let go. He let his legs stretch out and then whispered, “He had good intentions.”

“Take it from me, good intentions don’t mean much anymore.”

“I guess they don’t.” He said, picking at his red cloak. He lied down next to his companion, his fingers interlaced on his chest. The stars shined bright and one even fell, arching across the sky that would’ve had him tracing its trajectory then but only had him fervently wishing now, his eyes closing as if that would make the impossible come true.

“We’re really messed up aren’t we?” The raspy voice said, chuckling like a damned man, choking through his tears. His friend laughed, his head tilting back to brush against grass, his chest lifting in off the ground as he laughed and laughed and cried and cried, tears squeezing between his eyelids.

“Were you…?” He says, his finger spinning around even though they were both facing the open sky.

“Yes.” He says, wiping tears from his cheeks. His chest feels a little lighter, a little less like it’ll cave in from grief and horror and terrible loneliness. “Were you?” He directs back.

“No. No, you- he - he and I were only really good friends in our dimension.”

“And in others?” He prompts, his voice trembling harder than it has all night. He turns over so his stomach is lying flat against the ground and he searches for his companion’s face that blends so well in the darkness. A hand reaches out, only to be caught in an unrelenting grip. He does not try to take his hand back, it stays, skin over pulse jumping under a large palm.

“We were together in some. In others we never even meet. That’s how infinite universes work.”

“You wanted us to.”

“What?”

“You wanted us to be together.” He gets up on all fours and crawls over the man still lying on the ground. His face blocks out the starlit sky from view but his eyes are like stars themselves, twinkling as wet tears drops on his cheek.

“I’m not him.” He states.

“I know.”

“Fiddleford, I’m not your Stanford,” Fiddleford above him trembles, his eyes bloodshot behind drooping glasses. Stanford knows he can flip the slighter male in a heartbeat, knock some sense into him with a slam into the hard ground. His hands twitch an inch from Fiddleford’s wrists but they stay still.

“I know.” Fiddleford breathes before he’s kissing Stanford. Stanford lets him. It’s wet and sloppy and not at all how Stanford imagined their first kiss would be like. Is it their first kiss? This isn’t the Fiddleford he knew. This isn’t the Fiddleford who he played Dungeons and Dragons with during his college years. This isn’t the Fiddleford who hummed country songs while working on the portal, or climbed a cliff in five seconds flat while chasing down some troublesome gnomes, this isn’t the Fiddleford that cried at a black and white film while sick to his guts, spewing snot everywhere.

This was a stranger. A familiar stranger but a stranger nonetheless.

Yet on they went, desperate mewls and wandering hands, breathless gasps and wet eyes. They had sex on Stanford’s trenchcoat, Fiddleford sinking into Stanford’s dick with quaking legs, his hands clenching Stanford’s shoulders. It was messy. It was desperate.

It was the start of a temporary healing, a small bandaid not nearly enough for all they’re bleeding wounds.

Stanford stayed around after that, returning his home in the woods along with Fiddleford. Neither of them approached the basement. They fell into bed some more after that, and even not in bed. Sometimes Stanford thought he could stay in this dimension, resume his work in the place of someone else but then Fiddleford would spout some memory. Something nice and wistful and not at all shared they would look at each other and remember that they were not their own.

And will never be.

“You could bring him back you know. If you turned the portal on.”

“I won’t.” Fiddleford said, the creasing of his eyes the only sign of his annoyance. They were talking about it more and more lately. “Not even for him.”

“I understand.”

“Do you? You keep asking about the portal.” Fiddleford closed the cupboard, the pots cupboard not the bowl cupboard, and stared at Stanford, wearing the his old trenchcoat and turtleneck. A sight for old eyes seeing as how he’s been wearing the other Stanford’s clothes, button ups and polos. He braced his hands on the counter behind him.

“Alternate reality. Maybe the portal isn’t so unstable in this one as the mine.” Stanford shrugged. “As it is, I think it’s time I leave.”

“Leave?” Fiddleford asked, his breath hitched, his hand going to his hair. “What’s wrong?”

“There’s nothing wrong Fiddleford. I just don’t think this is the healthiest relationship and I have to find my way home.”

“Home?” Fiddleford said, his lips mouthing the word, as if it was something he hadn’t heard in a long time. A word that’s lost all it’s meaning. “Hasn’t it been years since you left yer dimension? Yer still tryin’ to go back?”

“Where else am I supposed to go?”

“Nowhere. Here. You belong here.” Fiddleford clutched Stanford’s arm, his eyes becoming beady.

Stanford placed a kiss on his forehead. “I love you Fiddleford but we both know I have to go. We have to move on.”

Fiddleford closed his eyes, letting Stanford’s arms wrap around him. When he opened them, Stanford Pines of dimension 46’\ was gone. 


	7. Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You kinda have to read "Another day in the summer month" to get this.

“How do you know this is prime dimension?”

Stanford let his hand fall to the wooden planks. He turns to look at his brother whose eyes are captivated by the night sky.

“I don’t know what you’re asking.” Stanford says, a pressure on his throat. Almost like someone was stepping on it, not enough to make him choke but enough that he could feel the imprints the shoe would make on his skin without actually crushing his windpipe. He coughed.

“Y’know, how do you know this is where you came from and not someplace else that looks just like it.”

Stanford closes his eyes, memories of worlds too close to home if only for that one detail. That one thing that made it not home. In just one question Stanley was uncovering weeks of doubt.

“Math, and science, and numbers.” None of which really assured Stanford. It was a sad, cold day when Stanford Pines could not be assured by his own logic but sad, cold days were cropping up more and more recently and he’s learned to embrace it. Better sad and cold then dead.

The subject changed, as the crickets chirped and fireflies touched down on the lake, creating ripples on the still water.

 


End file.
